From the Archives

Milking It for All It's Worth

I was sent home early from work today for exhibiting "paleness" and "looking awful." Sort of begs the question why I haven't been sent home early from work every day of my career.

I haven't had a sick day in a while, and though it's great to have extra time to sleep and drink tea and stare blankly into the fridge only to decide everything in there would require actual cooking prior to consumption, I find myself cursing the day last week when I stood in John Lewis arguing that WE DON'T NEED A TELEVISION THIS MONTH. Had I known that October would herald my very first English cold I would have gladly shelled out for the lovely, 26", HDMI Ready Sony Bravia. Instead, like a fool, I paid the equivalent in 6 months of Council Tax to the Borough of Tower Hamlets. Ah the foibles of youth...

When it comes to being sick I am neither trooper nor sport. First I tend to blame the offending vector, in this case Pete. Then I rearrange the furniture so that it's sofa-centric. This means duvet, coffee table, pillows all come together to form my lair. I boil string beans only to eat them absent-mindedly out of the hot saucepan while standing at the stove. I fuss about not wanting to take any medicines.

Pete absorbs this with good humor and says things like "3 year-olds can't get married" and "Do you want me to get your tommee tippee cup?" Only if that sippy cup is full of Champagne, bucko, and not that vile Lemsip.

I feel dizzy, need parenting. The worst is yet to come. Damn this proto-misery.

Conkers!

The rules are simple. Two players take turns whacking each other's horse chestnuts. The first one to whack off the other's chestnut wins. We got our conkers from the Lion's Club of Cavisham for a small donation. Pete and I take turns stalemating as neither of us has the patience/endurance to finish the other off.

Apples and Bees

Sunday mornings in London are covered in vomit. The sidewalks are anyway. From the sheer amount of puke I've observed on the sidewalks of Limehouse on Sunday mornings I have concluded that, for most Londoners, Sunday is for absorbing hangovers.

Some weekends it's necessary to get away to a place where Wellies are not only stylish, but also practical. So this Sunday we were destined for Reading to visit friends who live in the charming town of Cavisham, Wellie central, where the apple harvest is well underway. The orchard we visited is known for growing rare breeds. We learned that the rise of the supermarket lead to the decline and fall of the flavorsome apple. But apples are delicious again in rural Oxfordshire. I very nearly tasted myself to extreme bellyache. There were just so many varieties to try. My favorites were the Falstaff (dry, crisp), the Bramley (for cooking), the Egremont Russet (rich and earthy), and the classic Cox's Orange Pippin.


Our friend Mark is an amateur beekeeper, but sshhhhh don't tell the neighbors. He is the youngest beekeeper in his beekeeping club by at least two decades. These are Mark's bees. He and his bees are very popular with us because they make honey. Pete and I returned home with a jar of late-summer honey from Mark's collection.

Happy harvest!

Because We Share a Bathroom

I can't say with any conviction that I have no privacy. True, most of my time is accounted for; it's spent at work. I sleep a great deal. I eat breakfast and dinner and sometimes even lunch with Pete. If I linger at Waitrose just a little longer than expected I'll get a nervous call on my mobile. It's cool though. This is the sacrifice you make to avoid all that anxiety over dying alone. The trade off is that for about 2 years after initial cohabitation begins, your every personal habit is monitored and critiqued if necessary.

For example, I thought the average life of a toothbrush was 2 weeks until Pete explained that my toothbrush looks like an heirloom toilet brush almost immediately after its first use because I chew on it. Hmmmm.

Also, there is one towel in the kitchen for dishes (this is called the dishtowel) and one for hands (hand towel, obviously). If you inadvertently mix the two up God himself will swoop down from the heavens and slap you across your silly face. Because the transfer of microorganisms from hand towel to dishes is unholy and vice versa.

I'm so sorry to have left you alone like that...

I know I've committed the cardinal sin of blogging by not posting for over a month. Please accept my heartfelt apology. And be glad you didn't have to read posts wherein I complain about the following:

1) The Bus to Ikea
2) Wembley on a Saturday Morning
3) Ikea
4) Why oh why didn't I get a better SAT score so I could get a high-powered job so I could afford to buy furniture at stores other than Ikea?

Rush Hour

This is what the Canary Wharf tube station looks like at 6pm on a weekday. Notice the suicide-proof glass protecting the train tracks from commuters who can't take it anymore.

On Wednesday I was almost one of those commuters. Fortunately Pete lured me down from the ledge with offerings of an iPod earphone. All it took was one earful of Steeleye Span to appease my toddler-like suffering.